This will make more sense if you have read the earlier parts of the story.
At last, after a period outside time, of impossible, unmeasurable duration, she experiences for the first time the paradoxical experience of an unbearable wait being replaced by gut-twisting apprehension at the certainty of impending shame as a strange man approaches, grinning cheerfully, leering almost; brazen as he looks her body over, certain of nothing other than that she is now going to be used and abused by this stranger for his own pleasure, without any consideration at as to her feelings or wellbeing, and that her choices consist of softly and sweetly subjecting herself to the service of that pleasure, or alternatively of resisting such service, then being cruelly treated until she begs for the chance to softly and sweetly service that pleasure after all, only with added tear-stains, humiliation and welts.
It is all she can do to maintain her position, her pose as he approaches, as she realises with dawning turmoil that he is not alone, this stranger, but that he has a young woman with him -- a girl -- not even twenty by the unbearable freshness of her skin; a remarkably lovely girl in a dress that is at the same time intimidatingly elegant and devastatingly sexy.
The fact that this girl's expression is off somehow -- closed, mulish, doesn't reduce the agonies of humiliation that suddenly boil inside her; the desperation to break her un-natural pose, to jump up, run to the loos, something -- anything -- to escape from the close inspection of another woman.
She has never even considered this possibility before, but of course she has been on the other end of the telescope -- when she, well dressed, on her boyfriend's arm, sat in a comfortable chair in an elegant room full of well-dressed and clearly wealthy patrons, served by attentive waitresses, to watch the destruction of the lovely blonde girl she had just been sitting at a dining table with.
She knows just how she judged the humbled and defeated beauty, how the words slut, whore, wanton, skank were in her mind -- so much more cutting from one woman to another than from a man's mouth; just how she sneeringly she had condemned the blonde, even before the worst of it. And so she knows -- is certain of -- the judgements that are being made by this young, elegant girl of her, her with her dress so obviously unbuttoned, her posture so clearly constrained, her tongue so suggestively extended, clearly inviting any man to imagine how it might be to put a cock into her.
She thinks she would like to die of this agony -- be saved anything further -- but of course there is no such easy escape.
Worse, she finds herself desperately widening the weak whore's smile to include the newcomers, turning to face them, welcoming, pathetic -- all the while without raising her eyes to their faces, another crushing humiliation that burns like fire.
But again, there is nothing that can be done but endure, now that all other options seem beyond consideration; this, too, must be borne.
The next minutes are terrible, as, offhandedly grabbing a chair from a nearby table, the stranger seats his girl, then ignores her to stand at her lover's side (must she start thinking of him as her Master?) to exchange pleasantries as if nothing unusual is happening -- ignoring both women completely for some minutes, until turning to face her, spending some seconds appraising her more closely now, which sets off the trembling again, uncontrollable, her cheeks burning, shaming her for her shame, the taste of ashes in her mouth again.
"So, this is the filly? eh? Good set of tits on it. Yes, quite a tasty morsel. I've seen her before, haven't I? No? I could have sworn -- ah I have it -- is she the one you showed us the video of -- the gang-fucking? That's it, yes, I remember. You had high hopes of her then. Seems you were well justified -- good work, man! "
"So she's all ready for me, you say -- submitted -- recorded, all that stuff? Excellent. All mine then. You sit back and enjoy the ride now -- you deserve it -- you've been working hard, it seems."
Then, as if suddenly remembering -- indicating the girl;
"Oh, yeah -- this is Alison. We were out -- I told her she needed to see this, but she's sulking -- aren't you girly? Pissed off she can't show me off to her little pals this evening."
Leaning over to the girl;
"You don't fool me, lovely -- you're fascinated, I know. Not many girls get to witness this sort of thing as it happens; you're lucky, you know?"
He laughs, warm, easy -- genuinely cheerful it seems.
She can't imagine herself ever feeling happy again, and, unlooked for, the cruel irony makes her laugh again, a little, although this speedily threatens to become a sob, and she has to stifle it, chest heaving with the effort, appalled at the way this sets her breasts moving, impossible to hide, impossible to accept, obvious, eye-catching.
Why is this agony so sweet, this shaming so liberating, this heartlessness so foolishly welcomed? How can this awful shame at the same time be a glory, the pain as sweet, as delicious, as delirious as it is searing? How can this be her?
And then the stranger is pulling a chair round closer to her, on the opposite side to her lover, leaning in. His breath reeks of drink, but he seems fully in control, his sneering patrician accent still sharp as he talks in a slightly lowered tone;
"You'll obey me perfectly now, slut, or regret it most bitterly. First thing, I need you to keep very still; this -- see it? -- is razor sharp. I'd love to cut you -- watch the despair in your eyes; but just this once I'm showing it to you without intending to draw blood."
In his palm, below the level of the table, there is in his hand a small, cruel looking knife; slim, elegant, beautifully worked -- and it's already moving under the hem of her dress.
Trembling, she holds herself as best she can as the cold steel touches her inner thigh; she's whimpering, almost inaudibly, caught between fear of what he might do to her with a sharp knife at her sex and the burning shame at the knowledge that the girl is seeing her submit to this so meekly, in public, letting herself be spoken to in such terms.
She so desperately wants to look up at her lover/master for some human reassurance, but dares not.
She hasn't really looked at the stranger's face (by contrast he has apparently seen video of her being roughly gang-banged: video she had no idea existed until a few minutes ago), but she is letting him put a knife to her sex, holding herself so that he can ...
Oh!
The flat of the blade is cold, right on her pussy, now; she feels the sharpness of its edge graze the tender folds at her clit hood. She freezes -- then relaxes a little as she understands at last, as her panties are pulled outward, then fall loose as the wicked blade parts the fabric with ease. Now the knife moves to the opposite hip, and the waistband there is cut. He pulls the panties with him as his hand retreats; she lifts her bottom for him, mute, shamefully compliant, feeling her weakness, her pathetic submission; completely captured by the intensity of the moment, with no thought as to anything but working with him, focused on divining as best she can what he expects from her and giving him exactly that.
He does it slowly, discreetly at least -- other diners likely have no idea what is happening -- but he lifts as he pulls, ensuring that the lace's texture drags at her tender pussy lips; she almost cannot repress a squeal of shocked despair at the feeling -- so horribly intimate, and in a crowded restaurant! It's as if the bottom has fallen from her self-image. She is not -- not any longer -- a girl who can expect any respect, it's clear; she is a girl who will co-operate in having her underwear taken from her in a restaurant, by a stranger, and whose belly will quiver with anticipation of a future fucking from the stranger as he does it.
She closes her eyes in anguish which is irretrievably intermixed with intense sexual arousal.
When the knife hand moves behind her back, she is compliant again -- not knowing what else to be, still helplessly concerned not to be disapproved of -- leans forward to make space for him, arches her back so that it's easy for him to slice the shoulder straps of her brassiere, then the main elastic. That wreckage too, is unobtrusively pulled from her; she feels her breasts jiggle free, the nipples stiff against the bodice of her dress, her breath catching. She wants to be fucked, would beg to have all this shame blanked out by some rough sex; hard, violent, non-negotiable, overpowering ... and she bites her lip, blushing -- how can these thoughts be hers? Is it possible that the watching girl, her lover/master have not seen the lust, the need, in her face, are not judging her?
Judging her correctly...
"That's it, lovely, let those tits sway free; you don't get to protect your treasures any more, princess: those juicy holes, those squishy mounds -- they're what make you useful, they are why you exist, what define you. Your job now is to offer them for use to anyone who might be interested, not guard them. So, no more panties for you pretty -- not ever; any bras you wear won't cover your nipples -- their job will be to push the tits out, make them obvious. Lift your bum again, now -- you are not permitted to sit on your skirts any more, either -- you're to feel your nakedness, experience your vulnerability at all times. Open your legs; wider!"
